Teach me to whisper like early-morn blush against the cheek of the illumined sky.
Teach me to whisper like early-morn blush
against the cheek of the illumined sky,
like the green blades of grass beside the rush
of the river that is hastening by.
Teach me the love that is found in a rose
and written in crimson calligraphy
across the earth, making merry of woes,
in a swirl of fire and epiphany.
Teach me the touch of immortal extent,
wherein forever is found in a flash,
where shadows of thought are an aliment,
a source of life among ruin and ash.
Teach me the hope of the blossoming bud,
tremendously tender and spun sublime,
with her flesh on fire from euphoric blood
and flaming curves that are bedewed with time.
Teach me the truth of mist on the water,
the white shroud of silence that drapes the blue,
where shadows hush like a quiet daughter,
waiting for the winds of a warmer hue.
Teach me the love of a lifetime of bliss,
where warm shades of passion burn like a fire,
where foreplay flutters are born in the kiss
between lips of unquenchable desire.
Teach me the joy that I see in your eyes
whenever I see you looking at me,
in that intimate way you alchemize
and turn my soul into a rhapsody.
Teach me to whisper the words of my heart,
the lover's song that I'm aching to sing
and bridge the distance which keeps us apart
by teaching heart how to lift its redwing.
Incredible...a sublime mix of hearthstone, open skies, and heartbeats.
'Teach me the love that is found in a rose
and written in crimson calligraphy
across the earth, making merry of woes,
in a swirl of fire and epiphany.'
Your touch in this poem beggars description. Where has your work been hiding?
I once read in the New York Times book review, a critic say that rhyme is dead..well he didn't read this poem, that is obvious..The words here are world class and timeless, though what I say here is ephemeral. I'll take my place in the long line of poets who also like it..and thank you for it.
Poetry is the sister of Sorrow. Every man that suffers and weeps is a poet; every tear is a verse, and every heart a poem. When the Divine Artist would produce a poem, He plants a germ of it in a hum.. more..